


A Kiss is not a Contract (but it can be)

by weepingnaiad



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, RED (2010), S.W.A.T. (2003)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Avengers are family, But he still doesn't listen, F/M, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maria sets Phil straight, Natasha is Clint's BFF, Perceived canon character death, Pining, While saving the world, because I threw every timeline in a blender and hit puree, silly villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:09:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/pseuds/weepingnaiad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clint is badly injured on a mission, Phil lets his deeply hidden feelings for the man show. But then he buries them again. And again. And again.  It takes death (and resurrection) to convince Phil life is too short to deny himself Clint's love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kiss is not a Contract (but it can be)

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** Thanks to abigail89. I couldn’t do any of this without her. Seriously, she sees things that I’m too close to ever notice (my own personal Hawkeye!) and she insists that I step up and deliver. I did, of course, tinker with it after she provided her feedback, so any and all remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
>  **A/N:** Takes place mostly in the MCU, but completely tosses the movie timeline out the window, ending up as a mish-mash with the comics and the animated series.
> 
> Written for avengers_rbb and inspired by the lovely mix created by emmypenny. Link follows. It fills my hurt-comfort bingo square for _death._ I also want to thank jlh for being my encouragement and sounding board for this.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** These are Marvel and Whedon’s characters used in the spirit of creative commons. I promise to return them with smiles on.

Fanmix: [Only Five Year-Old Girls Play Effeuille de Marguerite So I Won't (But I Want To)](http://galacticmoxy.livejournal.com/11964.html)

*~*

Clint's comm is gone and he's down to his last clip. There's blood slicking his side from where that idiot's knife had snuck between his ribs. And the safehouse is a world away with too many hostiles between him and it. He leans against the building to catch his breath, lets his eyes adjust to the dim alleyway as he mentally calls up a map of the city. Clint has a good memory and Coulson had drilled him on the layout of streets so many times that he'll be running its alleys in his sleep for weeks, _if_ he makes it out.

There's an old contact four blocks from here, not SHIELD, but she should be safe enough. She was, the last time he was here, but that was awhile ago and Hat Yai has grown. He keeps to the back alleys and side streets to make it through the warren of closely clustered homes and shops, trying to stay as nondescript as possible. He won't pass for Malay, but he can play the lost tourist, if necessary. He makes it without incident, but his contact isn't home. He lets himself into the small apartment despite her absence.

Hunkering down, he makes the extraction call, giving the codes for "injured, moderate" and "insecure". Once the impersonal voice on the line clicks off, he takes a deep breath and moves silently to the bathroom. He does the best he can to staunch the bleeding, but he needs more than a pressure bandage as the still seeping wound and the anxious gurgling in his chest attests.

The blood loss makes him woozy and the crash from the adrenaline spike steals his energy. He's not sure how long the extraction will take, not sure of anything as his body starts to shut down, demanding rest. Maybe he should have rated his injury a little higher. He settles with his back against a wall facing the door, gun in his lap as he fights the pull of sleep. One moment he's watching the shifting shadows along the floor, the next he's being shaken awake.

Starting, he reaches for his firearm, which is gone, but he slowly recognizes the man crouched before him. "Phil?" he croaks.

"Dammit, Barton!" Phil mutters, and before Clint knows what's happening, Phil's lips are on his. The kiss is insistent, hard, biting, and it might have taken him a moment to get with the program, but Clint's reaching up, tugging Phil close, leaping into the kiss with all he has. He must be dreaming because he's wanted this for so long, but Phil doesn't. Phil wouldn't dare break protocol, wouldn't violate regs, not for Clint, not for _anyone._ And Clint knows that. He's accepted it. But that doesn't mean he's not going to enjoy the hallucination while it lasts.

They're still kissing, Clint's head is swimming, but he's not letting go. They shift, but as Phil presses closer, an elbow hits Clint's side making him yelp. Phil pulls back as though stung and Clint's sagging, gasping for air, trying to keep the throbbing pain in his side from making him black out as it gradually dawns on him that this is no dream. Senior Agent Philip J. Coulson is here and just kissed him.

Clint's not sure what to do with that, especially when Phil swears under his breath. "Fuck!"

Clint's eyes track Phil as he straightens. He's still too woozy to see clearly, but he swears that Phil touches his lips, just once, his eyes wide with a faint flush on his cheeks, but Clint's probably only seeing what he wants to. Because Phil is suddenly at his good side and helping him up, all business-like, nothing more.

"C'mon, Barton. I have a ride for us. Can you walk?"

Clint nods, but his legs are admittedly shaky, the world tilting as they climb into the back of a very small taxi. The guy drives like it’s the Indy 500 and the bright pain flaring with each frantic swerve or bump pushes Clint over the edge to oblivion once again.

~~*~~

Clint wakes to the all-too familiar sounds and muted lights of SHIELD's medbay. He feels the tug of an IV in his arm and opens his eyes to Natasha reading by his bedside. This is not as uncommon an occurrence as it should be and he slams his eyes shut before she looks up at him.

"I know you're awake, Barton."

Clint pouts a little, but slowly opens his eyes again. "How long?" he croaks, then he remembers the kiss and his eyes go wide.

Something about the expression on his face makes Natasha sit up and reach for him. "What is it? Clint?"

Clint just blinks at her as he searches his memory, trying to recall what could have caused Coulson – Phil, to behave so uncharacteristically.

Natasha is shaking his shoulder, her normal unconcerned stare charged with worry. "Clint!"

He leans back and looks at her, finally seeing her. "Sorry, Tasha. I just remembered… Coulson _kissed_ me."

That gets him a palm on his forehead and a careful examination of his pupils and face. "You don't have a concussion, Barton. You shouldn't be hallucinating." Then a straw appears at his lips and he's drawing in cool, sweet water to ease his throat.

"It was real. It happened," he declares earnestly. "And," he pauses, knowing she won't mock him for this at least. "And I liked it. A lot. I like _Phil_ a lot." His heart's beating too fast, because he's admitting out loud something that he's known for a while but keeps locked away, shut down tight. He must be on the good drugs.

Natasha ruffles his hair, smiling as she rolls her eyes at him. "Of course you do. So what are you going to do about it?"

"Do?" He hadn't considered taking action. He's still stunned from the impossible kiss.

She shrugs. "If he kissed you, then there's attraction there, a foundation for you to build on. Start with talking. Move on from there."

"I can do that," he says, but he's not as confident inside as he sounds. Natasha knows that, too.

"You can." She leans down and gives him a quick kiss. "And now that you're awake, that's my cue to leave."

"Leave?" Clint's a bit fuzzy, unclear why Natasha has to leave when he's just awakened.

She shakes her head at him, a fond smile on her lips even though she's obviously trying to glare at him. "Because Coulson's going to show up any second now that you're awake and I don't want to watch him take you apart piece by piece."

"I'm injured! He wouldn't do that!" Clint protests.

That makes her chuckle. She pats his hand and rolls her eyes at him. "Coulson called the op and yet you still went in and—"

"I completed the mission!" he protests.

"And got yourself a punctured lung and a nice new scar over your ribs for it." She looks at him, the fond exasperation melting into a hard, icy stare. "No operation is _ever_ worth more than you, Barton. And since you aren't going to listen to me, you deserve everything that's coming."

"But—"

"I don't want to hear it. But I will come by later to pick up the pieces."

"Hey!"

"Get better, Barton."

 _'Oh,'_ he thinks as it dawns on him that Phil, no _Coulson,_ is going to be absolutely pissed at him. That makes his heart skip a beat and he's breathing too fast as he settles in to wait for what's to come.

~~*~~

Clint doesn't remember dozing off, but a subtle cough wakes him and he blinks heavy eyes open to see Phil standing at his bedside, arms crossed over his chest and his expression shuttered and unreadable. Normally, he'd know what Phil is thinking, whether he is pissed or worried, right now Clint can't read him and that's… disturbing. It makes Clint's stomach twist.

To cover his discomfort, he offers a cheeky smile and says, "Hey, boss man. What's up?"

Phil's right cheek twitches and it's then that Clint gains a sense of his mood. And Natasha was right. Phil's face has gone cold, his eyes icy. Not good is an understatement.

"Agent Barton, you disobeyed a direct order halting the op and in the process were seriously injured. This has caused SHIELD to incur considerable expense and taken a valuable asset out of commission, thus forcing other assets into rotation sooner than planned. Not to mention that you outed a potential ally and safehouse."

Clint blinks because Phil's never sounded like this before. He's always cool and carefully neutral, but now his words are said in a weird monotone, with an almost robotic delivery. And that's freaking Clint out, just a bit.

"Sorry?" Clint replies, unsure.

Phil narrows his eyes, but doesn't move otherwise. "I will not ask you what you were thinking, but I do want to know if you are no longer capable of working under my command?"

"What? No!" Clint stops. "No, I mean, yes! Dammit. I can follow orders, sir. But I got the eely bastard!" He takes a breath. "He needed to be taken down."

"That was not your call to make, Barton," Phil scolds. "Especially not when you are seriously injured in the process."

"I didn't know you cared, sir," Clint smirks. He's trying to make a dent in Phil's sour mood.

Phil goes still as he looks away and Clint stares at his profile, marvels at the hidden strength of this man.

"Are we going to talk about it?" Clint asks, quietly prodding Phil to look at him.

But Phil keeps his eyes averted, focusing everywhere but Clint's face. "There is nothing to discuss."

"The hell there's not! I might have lost a lot of blood, but I very clearly remember that kiss, _Phil._ "

His first name from Clint's lips does the trick and Phil's eyes dart up, connect with Clint's – and when did those eyes get so blue? – but he doesn't say anything.

Clint pats the bed, smiling gently. "I liked it… if you were wondering," Clint offers. "I – I'd like for you to kiss me again." Then he gives Phil a teasing smile. "I'd like more than that, too."

Something in Phil crumples then. He sags against the bed, hands gripping the mattress tightly. He's looking away again, studying his impeccably polished shoes. "I – we can't, Barton. It's…" The words are said so softly that Clint's straining to hear. "I'm your handler and it's inappropriate and against regs."

Clint wants to argue, to fight to convince him that they _can,_ but Phil looks up and he's got this heartbreaking expression on his face, in his eyes. He's lost and quite possibly scared and that breaks Clint's resolve.

"I care about you, but we have to keep it strictly professional," Phil says, though his eyes give him away.

"We've never been strictly professional. I thought we were friends, Coulson," Clint snaps, lashing out.

"We _are_ Clint, but we can't be anything beyond that." Phil's voice is firm and his eyes have gained that steely determination that Clint's yet to see falter.

Clint's heart sinks and he sighs, flopping back into his pillows. He should have known he'd never have a shot at something so good, at _someone_ so good. That's not his life.

"Fine. Whatever. It was just a kiss. A kiss doesn't mean anything. Not like it was a contract or anything." He can't look at Phil, doesn't want to see pity or sympathy in his eyes. He should have known better than to admit his feelings.

"I'm sorry. I crossed the line," Phil says. "I didn't mean—" his voice breaks. "I hope we'll still be able to work together?"

Phil doesn't sound like himself and Clint wants to look at him, wants to reassure him. But he's not sure he can do that, not without his voice cracking. He fumbles for the water at his bedside table and Phil hands him the cup, carefully ensuring that their fingers do not touch.

Clint drinks, buying time as he tries to come up with something to say. The water's a big help, soothes his dry throat and gives him a chance to bury the broken pieces of his heart. He hopes they'll stay buried this time.

"Of course, we'll still work together, sir," Clint finally answers, his voice not quite his usual self, but close. "No one else can handle me."

"Get better, Barton. We need you in one piece." Phil says as he stands. They still haven't looked each other in the eye and it's better this way.

Clint waves a hand at Phil. "You bet, sir. I'll be out of here in no time."

"Just not before the doctors release you."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"I'll send Natasha in to sit on you, if that's what it takes."

And there's a hint of the old banter. Something settles inside Clint. If this is all he can have, it's better than nothing.

He turns to look at Phil standing a bit too stiffly by the door. "No need for threats, boss. I got it."

"Good," Phil says, his lips curving into a smile. "Get some rest, Barton."

"Night, sir." If Clint says _'Phil'_ in his head, no one but him need know.

~~*~~

"Phil?" Maria asks as she sticks her head into his office.

"Can I help you?" Phil looks up from his laptop, welcomes the intrusion. He's nowhere near getting the sitrep right; has, in fact, been staring at the same sentence for the past ten minutes. Damn Barton and his soft lips and gorgeous eyes!

"I was walking by and noticed your light on. Isn't Barton still in medical?"

Phil hears the unvoiced _'why are you here'_ quite clearly. He's not behaving normally, but he can't stay at Clint's bedside, not right now. Not when all he can see is that flash of betrayal in Clint's eyes when Phil had denied that there was or ever could be a _them._

He sighs, distracts himself by concentrating on Maria. "He is. But I have to get the sitrep done. We have a contact to reimburse…"

Maria has moved to stand in front of his desk and she's eyeing him like a bug under a microscope. "Something wrong, Phil?"

"Besides the usual Hawkeye crap?" he snaps. "No, not really."

She crosses her arms over her chest and studies him even more intently. "Pardon me for saying so, but I call bullshit."

And Phil wonders if his turmoil's visible; if Maria can hear his stomach churn; if his lack of concentration is written on his forehead. He feels damnably unsteady, off his game. He hasn't managed to dismiss all the tangled feelings he has for one Specialist Clinton Barton, no matter what he'd said to the man.

Instead of answering, Phil arches an eyebrow and plasters on his "agent" mask. "What are you implying?"

Maria leans forward, presses her palms flat on the desk and stares at Phil. "I'm not implying a damn thing. You've got something eating at you and I want to know who to go break. If it's Barton, it'll be easy. He's a sitting duck in medical right now."

She gives him that evil little grin, the one that was the reason he'd recruited her out from under the CIA's nose. He can't help but smile back as she adds, "If it's the director, I'll be happy to go there. He switched coffee vendors and this latest one is utter crap."

Phil chuckles, despite the knots in his stomach. "I've noticed that everyone's a bit twitchier than normal."

"Yeah, you can't drink the sludge, so everyone's wandering around caffeine deprived."

"That could be serious," he says, mouth purposefully not smiling, but his eyes are sparkling.

She nods, then stands, crossing her arms over her chest. "Nice diversion, but you still haven't told me what's up."

He could lie. He could come up with something plausible, but there was a high degree of probability that she'd see through him. If Maria gets wind of a secret, especially gossip, she's worse than a bloodhound on the trail. Phil sags a little, hates himself for the momentary weakness. He'd been doing so well at keeping his attraction to Clint firmly under control. But then Clint had gone radio silent, left too much blood at the scene, and disappeared.

Phil isn't too proud to admit he lost his shit for twenty minutes. Then the call had come in and there was Clint, bleeding, but alive with this soft look in those mesmerizing eyes of his. He was hurt and only half-aware and Phil took advantage of the situation. And dammit, he should report it. Needs to step down as Clint's handler. But he can't. If he does, Clint will leave SHIELD altogether and probably take Natasha with him. And Phil cannot set those two free on an unsuspecting world.

He is so fucked.

But Maria's a friend. They've worked together long enough, weathered every situation under the sun during those years. If anyone could understand, it'd be Maria.

Decision made, he blurts out, "I kissed Barton. He was injured, lots of blood loss by the time I got to him. I wasn't sure he would make it."

She just blinks at him, then rolls her eyes. "Is that all? I thought it was something serious. Like money laundering, embezzlement, or you deciding to flip sides." She huffs out a laugh. "Geez, Phil. You're not the first handler to get involved with an asset."

"There are rules against it for a reason," he spits out, taking his anger at himself out on Maria.

She stops, cocks her head to study him closely. "I am aware," she says gently. "But you're better than that. You won't let it mess with your head."

He thinks, _'It already has,'_ but answers, "I'm only human, Maria."

"I'm glad to hear it finally confirmed. The juniors have bets going that you're a Stark creation." She's goading him back to good humor. He doesn't smile, even if her ploy succeeds, because he prides himself on being the stone cold badass that terrifies the agents, junior and senior alike.

She smiles, knows him well enough to know she's accomplished what she set out to.

"I've got it handled, Agent Hill."

"I'm sure you do," she acknowledges. "But if you want to talk…"

"I know where you live."

"Right." She heads to the door, turning as she opens it. "Night, Phil. And, really, you should make sure Barton's locked down for the night. There's no telling what he'll do if you don't."

"I'll take that under advisement. Night, Maria."

Maria's right. The problem is, he's already seen Barton and it took everything in him not to kiss the archer once again. He'd needed every undercover skill he'd ever learned to get through that encounter. He can't do it again. Not without breaking his word to himself and probably hurting Clint more than he already has.

He sighs and turns back to his sitrep. It's going to be a long night.

~~*~~

The thing is, Clint is a professional. He's a smart ass and his comm chatter alone borders on insubordination. Despite his outward cockiness, his issues with authority, and the arrogance that is well earned, he's still one of the best assets that Phil has ever worked with, and that includes Natasha. Phil knows all of this and more. He knows Clint's file backwards and forwards. He knows that Clint more than deserves his place on the Avengers, but that doesn't make Clint's easy acceptance of Phil's declaration less hard to bear.

In his head, Phil can admit that he was secretly hoping that Clint would balk at his protest. That Clint would keep the casual flirting up, that he'd at least try for another kiss when the opportunity arose. He hasn't. And Phil's the one who's hating the 'not-quite-back-to-the-way-it-was' that they've slipped into. He can't complain to anyone, though. Maria would just call him the idiot that he is and tell him to 'hit that'. Sitwell would call him crazy for not jumping Clint's bones years ago, but then Jasper's banging Maria, or rather it's the other way around (Phil does not need _that_ image in his head). And Fury would take him off the Initiative until he gets his head on straight.

Phil sighs. It's been a couple of crazy months and he's still _pining._ Dammit, he needs to get laid. Otherwise, he's going to do something stupid where Clint's concerned. And no matter what, the last thing he wants to do is hurt Clint or screw up either of their places on the Initiative.

He pulls out his phone and flips through the contact list, stopping at the entry for Michael. Phil hadn't called when he was given the number, but he soothed the hurt by saying he travels too much each time he runs into the handsome history teacher at Peet's. But there is attraction there and Phil's cover story as an auditor employed by a government agency is plausible. It explains the travel, seems to fit him, and, besides, he's never dated someone long enough that it was ever a problem.

He hesitates because dating a civilian is hard – too many lies and too many secrets, not to mention too many late nights and long weekends, or even weeks. Few SHIELD agents ever manage to make a relationship work, let alone one with someone who has no idea what you really do for a living. Phil grimaces and scrolls past the number. No matter how attractive and interesting Michael is, he deserves more than Phil can offer.

As he's about to set his phone down, he hears laughter outside his office. His gut tightens. He misses hearing that laugh. He's caught in the middle of a sigh and a frown as Clint sticks his head in the door. "Hey, boss! We're having a movie marathon in the den in half an hour, wanna come?"

Clint's giving him a hopeful smile and Phil's not a strong enough man to resist it. He returns Clint's smile, glad to be invited, but asks (because he knows Stark), "What kind of marathon?"

Clint leans against the door, arms crossed over his chest and Phil does _not_ stare at his upper arms. He keeps his eyes firmly on Clint's face (thank goodness for sharp peripheral vision!) and cocks an eyebrow up in question.

"Well, we're not entirely sure. There are so many movies that Rogers hasn't seen. We may resort to takedowns to decide." Clint shrugs. "Of course, if we do, we'll be stuck watching _'Dr. Zhivago'_ and _Fiddler on the Roof_."

Phil grins. "Maybe just allow Natasha first choice? And then draw straws?"

Clint pushes off the door frame and winks at Phil. "I knew there's a reason we kept you around, sir."

Phil works hard to keep his face from splitting into a wide grin. "I would hope that it was for more than mediating movie choices, Barton."

"Oh, you know it, sir. Your suits bring much needed class to the team."

Phil can feel a flush rising under his collar. He really needs to look away or say something, needs to break the heated tension in the air, but Clint and his damn eyes have him transfixed.

He sucks in a quick breath and asks as coolly as he can manage, "It's the Dolce, isn't it?" He adds, his voice gently mocking, "I always knew you were secretly a fashionista, Barton."

"I do have a thing for a hot guy in a well-tailored suit, sir."

Phil's mouth goes dry. This is exactly what he's been missing, but the frisson of desire shooting along his nerves is not helpful. Not when he's agreed to an all-night movie marathon. One of these days, he's going to learn to control himself around Clint.

"See you in half an hour, _Phil,_ ” Clint says as he leaves, the smile on his face saying he knows _exactly_ what he does to Phil.

Sighing, Phil nods to the empty doorway. He is well and truly fucked.

~~*~~

The movie marathon goes better and worse than Phil expects. They do watch _'Dr. Zhivago'_ because no one dares to argue with Natasha and then they watch _'Singing in the Rain'_ because Phil draws the long straw.

The next movies are chosen only after ridiculous and near comical feats of prowess – strength, marksmanship, and even aerial skills. But the movie choices are sound and Phil's not going to complain about watching _'The Princess Bride'_ and _'Star Wars'_. The _'Lord of the Rings'_ marathon – Bruce's choice – gets postponed because everyone agrees that they must watch the extended blu-ray editions and those three movies alone will kill an entire weekend. Bruce looks pleased at the team's eagerness and settles in to watch with a soft huff of laughter.

Steve quietly soaks up the movies while Thor loudly extolls the virtues of Stark's theater room. It's shaping up to be an altogether perfect weekend.

And Phil does thoroughly enjoy himself despite the longing in his gut every time he looks at Clint. But who could complain when you learn that your hero – freaking _Captain America_ himself – swears like a sailor and can silence Tony with only a fierce glance? Phil finds it funnier than he should that Rogers can make Stark practically swallow his tongue and privately wagers that they'll be sharing more than glances before the weekend's out. 

And then there's Bruce who's wickedly funny and quietly sarcastic. He almost outmatches Clint in snark, making Phil grin like an idiot when they join forces and turn on Stark, leaving him gaping in disbelief. "No fair double teaming me!" Rogers steps in and effortlessly silences the chatter while Phil wonders if he and Stark aren't already fucking.

Thor is endearingly bewildered especially during _'Dr. Zhivago'_ , but demonstrates that no one can have Loki for a brother and not learn something about wielding a sharp tongue.

Phil stays out of the fray and watches the movies with Pepper at his side. If his eyes turn a little green when Clint and Natasha cozy up to each other, the dark room keeps his secret.

It is all wonderfully comfortable but leaves Phil aching. The next day he calls Michael. Clint has the Avengers and Natasha and it's been too long for Phil. Besides how badly can a first date go?

~~*~~

It turns out that when you're a SHIELD agent who babysits Avengers, a night out can go pretty damn badly.

Pepper overhears Phil rescheduling his first date _again_ – thank you SHIELD and the freaking ambassador of Monrovia this time – and interrupts his conversation. "Why don't you take him to the Met? Tony's got a box there. You'll be able to keep an eye on the ambassador like Fury wants _and_ have a nice time while doing so. It's win-win."

"How did you--" Phil starts, then shakes his head, not bothering to finish that question. He really doesn't want to know just how much Stark tells Pepper. Hell, he really doesn't want to think about Stark intercepting his communications because then he'd have to investigate, inform Fury, and make it stop. If he doesn't admit it out loud, he has plausible deniability.

"You sure?" he asks.

Pepper nods. "Quite sure. Tony doesn't attend the opera and his box will be perfect..." she gives him a mischievous grin. "For your purposes."

He thanks her and tells Michael, who is quietly stunned, but excited. Phil is, too, if he's honest. He hasn't been on an actual date in far too long. That he'll be sitting in a box at the Met with a gorgeous guy is a great way to get back into practice.

Of course, Phil's life doesn't work like that.

Pepper must have let it slip to Natasha that Phil's using the box for a date. So of course, she and Clint corner Phil in the kitchen about it. They do it over coffee before he's had enough caffeine to make sure he keeps his mouth shut. The next thing he knows, the box is full of Avengers and Michael is awestruck for about ten minutes. After that he's giddy and gawking and being a truly annoying fanboy. There are pictures posted to Facebook, tweets, and even a video (taken by Phil at Michael's request) of Michael giving each male Avenger a kiss (he's too terrified of Natasha and doesn't even ask).

And if that isn't bad enough, the intel concerning a threat to the ambassador proves to be right. Phil's distracted by his growing irritation with Michael and nearly misses the two Hydra goons that grab the ambassador. Luckily, the current soloist, who happens to be the ambassador's daughter shrieks loud enough to shatter glass and the Avengers dive into action.

They foil the kidnapping attempt and mop up the threat without too much damage to the opera house. 

It's always a win in Phil's book when he's not buried in forms and interviews and demands for recompense from an Avenger action.

Of course, Michael records the whole incident and Phil 'accidentally' deletes the video, permanently erasing all evidence of the evening from his phone. That, and the near swooning over Rogers and Stark, would be bearable, if annoying, but Michael won't stop gushing about all the Avengers. He is tempted to stop the car and kick Michael out when he starts commenting on Clint's arms and practically drooling over his ass. Despite Michael's run-off-of-the-mouth, Phil's still a gentleman and he walks Michael to his door, hoping to put the disaster behind him. 

Instead, Michael pulls Phil into his apartment by his loosened tie and murmurs, "Auditor, huh? What exactly do you audit, Phil? Captain America's ass?" Surprised, Phil dives into the kiss, figuring what the hell. He's only human and it has been a long time. No way is he turning down sex even if there's too much superhero chatter.

The sex, while good, leaves him feeling hollow. He tells himself he didn't take advantage and refuses to think 'walk of shame' as he ascends in the mansion's elevator, but the whole thing doesn't sit right. Phil is unused to being pursued because of his job and, if he's honest with himself, he feels dirtied by the whole incident. He only prays that he gets back to his room before he meets anyone.

Of course, Phil's life doesn't work like that.

He steps off the elevator and runs into Clint who obviously can't sleep and is bound for the range as he so often is when insomnia strikes. "Phi—Coulson! Um, hey!"

The greeting is awkward, feels even worse than it sounds and Phil can't breathe because Clint is standing there looking slightly bewildered and altogether too gorgeous in just his sleep pants, with bare feet and tousled bedhead.

He's an agent of SHIELD and he should be able to do this. "Good evening, Barton. I was just…" He almost tries to explain himself and then stops. He doesn't owe Clint anything, nor does the archer owe him. They're colleagues, maybe friends, nothing more. "Uh, yeah, night, Barton," he finishes, rubbing at the back of his neck as he wishes he'd bothered to put his tie back on.

"Night, sir," Clint says, eyes stuck on Phil's open collar.

They pass and Phil takes a deep breath, stopping when Clint calls after him, "Sorry about tonight. I mean—I… well next time, Nat and I, we'll make sure that the team doesn't interfere with your date."

Phil turns around, looks at Clint, and he doesn't know what to say to express his gratitude.

Clint meets Phil's eyes, shuffles his feet a bit before ducking his head. "I mean, it looks like it didn't matter, figured it wouldn't. He was with the best of us after all."

Before Phil can reply, the elevator closes and Clint's gone. Only then does Phil realize the hollow in his chest isn't so empty anymore.

~~*~~

Clint ducks into an Irish pub he discovered years ago. It's little more than a hole in the wall, but serves beer on draught at the right temperature from real pull taps. And, it is frequented by cops and 'average' joes; people he can relate to instead of high powered billionaires and perfect super soldiers. He likes the place because it reminds him of his favorite watering hole in Crawley, outside of Gatwick airport. It has the added advantage of two dart boards, a steady rotation of over confident players, and no one hotheaded enough to be pissed when they lose. Clint's comfortable here, fits in in ways he still doesn't at the mansion. Plus, no one recognizes him and that's the best part of all.

Clint really isn't looking to pick up anyone. He'd just wanted a pint somewhere quiet, away from the team. But the guy that settles in at the bar next to him is gorgeous and he catches Clint looking. Clint tenses, aware of the rampant homophobia among the rank and file, but Mr. Sexy Brown Eyes and Subtle Irish brogue gives him the once over in return, then bumps their knees together.

Clint offers his hand and name, getting "Jim Street" back with a firm handshake. They quickly find they have a lot in common; sports, cycles, hazardous jobs (without revealing what either does for a living). Clint's pretty sure Jim's a cop. He's also fairly certain Jim thinks Clint is off duty FBI. Whatever. _'That's close enough for government work,'_ he thinks and chuckles internally at the pun.

They've been talking for awhile when Clint realizes that he's comfortable; the ever present tension in his back and shoulders releasing as he settles into the easy conversation. It's damned good to get away from the 'super-powered' set.

Of course, that's when Clint's real life intrudes. The front of the bar explodes inward, tossing most of the patrons to the floor. Most of them immediately get back up with their guns pointed at the giant turtle-like creatures storming in. 

Clint just groans and drags Jim with him behind an overturned table as shots ring out. He yells at everyone to get down as he assembles his portable crossbow. 

"Who are you?" Jim asks.

"Clint Barton, like I said," he replies, never looking up from assembling his bow.

The guy grins, "Riiight," then lifts to his knees, fires a few times before realizing that his duty pistol can't penetrate the creature's shell. "You got something that can take them down?" he asks.

"They're only weak in a few places. Target the gaps in their plating. Or straight through the eyes," Clint explains as he gets on his knees and sights the exact spot he'd just indicated to Jim. His arrow lodges in the exposed skin between the shell and the armored neck plates and the lead turtle goes down in a spray of blood.

"That's some damn fine shooting!" Jim whistles next to him. "Who did you say you were again?"

Clint grins, despite himself. Jim really is gorgeous, especially when he smiles. "Just Clint Barton," he answers, refusing to reveal his alter ego. The second turtle goes down, but from the chaos in the streets there are many more to deal with. 

"You aren't _just_ anything, man," Jim mutters, but he stands as Clint does. He's not the only one gaping at the creatures laid out in the ruined bar.

Clint begins to move toward the door, turning his head to wave Jim away as he is leaving, but Jim's at his side, grinning maniacally, unafraid.

"You want to get in some target practice?"

"Thought you'd never ask… _Hawkeye,_ " Jim says, voice barely audible.

Clint stiffens, but Jim presses a hand to his arm. "No worries, dude." Then he cocks his head and strides out of the bar, gun cocked and ready. 

Clint smiles, a bit stunned as he follows.

And Jim's a great shot and pretty cool in the skirmish, but his guns are no match for the fast-moving creatures' armor, which is disconcerting because they look like nothing but turtles. And turtles should be slow and not standing on two legs. Limbs? Whatever.

Clint can't believe his life as he and Jim work together to clear out the immediate vicinity. He's _flirting_ with the guy amidst the carnage and soon enough finds himself with his chest plastered against Jim's back, helping him fire a crossbow bolt into a larger-than-the-rest turtle charging toward them.

Jim laughs as the bolt slides cleanly into the creature's eye and he turns, his face only inches from Clint's and there's way too much interest on both their parts for the very public location. Clint pulls away with a huffed out regretful sigh.

"Yeah," Jim agrees, but there's no time for anything else because Thor drops down in front of them, booming out a greeting. "Shieldbrother! You are needed at the heart of battle!" He steps over two fallen turtles while finishing off another with Mjolnir.

Clint rolls his eyes. He greets Thor with clasped forearms.

"Look me up sometime. I'm at the second precinct," Jim says quietly as Thor directs servicemen and civilians away from the invasion.

Clint meets Jim's eyes and nods before Thor whisks him away.

The full-scale battle and ensuing cleanup take longer than Clint would like and he's exhausted by the end of it all, wanting nothing more than a long, hot shower, followed by pizza and mindless television. He's craving company, but not of the kind his team offers. He uses SHIELD resources to track down one Jim Street, decorated officer of the second precinct. He saves the info and smiles to himself. This one has potential.

While he gets the shower, dinner is Bruce's curry (which, okay, better than pizza), and the mindless television ends up being movie night. Clint, Bruce, and Tony arm wrestle to call it. Clint wins, so they watch _'Alien.'_ Steve is wide-eyed and quiet throughout the movie while Thor does not shut up until the creature bursts out of the guy's stomach. Everyone flinches and even Natasha ducks her head into Clint's shoulder, her whispered, "I hate this movie, Barton," for Clint's ears only.

He tightens his arm around Nat's shoulder and glances around at his sprawled out team. That's when it dawns on Clint that the 'super-powered' set isn't so bad.

~~*~~

Phil starts dating a cellist, Marci, but their first date is cut short by giant robots taking out the restaurant they're dining in. And what kind of super villain designs robots with large red kill switches on their backs? Still, Clint makes the shot, Natasha finds the idiot controlling the bot, and Marci's unharmed. She accepts without comment that Phil is more than the government auditor he claims to be, but that could be shock because she's a bit too pale and shaking as she leaves with the paramedics.

"Sorry about your date, boss," Clint murmurs over the comms.

Phil just shrugs because there's nothing he can say.

Their second date should have been simple enough. Marci's quartet is playing a free concert in Central Park. It's the perfect day for the show, clear with light winds, not too hot. Phil even brings a blanket and picnic basket for afterwards. He settles in to watch, delighting in the music with a warm flush each time the petite brunette looks up from her music and smiles at him.

 _'This is good,'_ he thinks. He can do this.

Of course, the minute he allows himself to begin to believe that, the park is invaded, or rather the park itself is _changed._ It must be Idiot Super Villain Month, because who thinks turning mud sentient is ever a good idea?

Phil wonders what he'd done in a past life to deserve this as The Other Guy stomps sentient mud creatures all the while looking like nothing more than a giant kid playing in the mud. Clint's laughing so hard over the comm that _Stark_ snaps at him to 'cut the chatter' and The Hulk flings creature 'limbs' (basically giant mud balls) at Clint.

Phil would be laughing along with the rest of the team (he _would_ ) if there weren't two giant blobs oozing onto the bandstand. Straight toward Marci. Luckily, or maybe not so much when you consider the resulting mud-splosion, Thor arrives at that moment. Phil leaps onto the stage as both blobs erupt, sending founts of mud and bits of grass and stone _everywhere_.

In the aftermath, he'd tried to explain that the mud creatures weren't actually harmful, just sticky… and, well, _muddy,_ but Marci is spluttering and shivering and more than a little bit angry with him. He flinches when she glares up at him through the brown ooze slowly sliding down her face. "My cello? You save my cello before _me?_ ”

"In my defense," he begins, but finds himself talking to Marci's back. She's striding away as fast as a woman covered in brownish-green muck and carrying a cello can move. Which is surprisingly fast.

Phil sighs and there's a muddy palm resting on his shoulder. He turns to meet Clint's eyes. "Sorry, boss," he offers quietly.

Phil just nods and looks around. The whole team is covered in mud, including him, yet they're smiling and laughing while The Hulk appears to be making mud pies by the lake, four little girls ordering him about.

Despite the disaster that was his date, Phil grins, then flings a large glob from his hair at Steve's chest and the mud fight is _on._

~~*~~

Phil straightens his tie and clutches the flowers just this side of too tight. Marci has agreed to give him another chance, but only to a light dinner after her last performance of the week. He's honestly surprised she acquiesced after their first two dates both ended in ruin.

He stands backstage and listens to the concert, his appreciation for the music easing the unusual case of the nerves he is fighting. When the show ends, Marci sees him, lighting up as she takes the colorful bouquet from him. Then she surprises him once again by leaning close and dropping a light kiss on his cheek.

"Phil, I'm so glad you called."

"I wasn't sure… after the park…" His voice trails off awkwardly. Really how do you apologize for exploding mud monsters?

Marci shakes her head. "No, I'm sorry. I over-reacted. Saving my cello was the exact right thing to do. The others… well, let's just say you saved my instrument and my job."

She takes Phil's arm and grins up at him. "Besides, it's pretty hot to be dating an Avenger."

"I'm not actually…" Phil protests.

"Nonsense," she interrupts. "I saw you leap up on that stage. You were _fierce._ "

To cover the flush creeping up his neck, he clears his throat, then asks, "Shall we?"

The restaurant is elegant and understated without being ridiculously expensive. It's one of Phil's favorites. Natasha and Clint celebrate here and had introduced him to it. He's trying to impress Marci without overdoing it. From her happy chatter, he thinks he's doing pretty good so far.

Their server has just set down their entrees when Phil catches sight of two very familiar patrons entering the restaurant. Phil's mom meets his eyes and gives him a brief smile, while Ivan winks as they pass. Phil's insides freeze up.

"Is there something wrong, Phil?" Marci's asking.

"What? Oh, no. Sorry," he apologizes, his carefully cultivated mask slipping back into place as he begins assessing the patrons and the staff in the dining room. He doesn't see anyone out of the ordinary and it is possible that Victoria and Ivan are merely having dinner, but he doesn't really believe that.

He draws Ivan's eye and nods toward the back. Then he carefully blots the corners of his mouth with his napkin, which he places next to his plate. "Will you excuse me?" he asks, standing.

Marci looks up and nods. "Certainly. Don't be too long," she teases.

Phil pats her hand briefly. "I wouldn't dream of it."

He checks each stall twice, turning when Ivan steps into the restroom. "Ivan—" he starts, but is interrupted by a bear hug.

"Philip, my boy! What a happy coincidence!" Ivan pulls back and assesses Phil with assassin's eyes. "You look good."

Before Phil can reply, Ivan's chattering again. "Is that your cellist? Marci, is it? So pretty. I like her."

Phil is forty-five. He does not need parental approval for who he dates. But Ivan's words still make him smile.

"Your mother… she does not," Ivan continues, dashing cold water on Phil's warm glow.

"What?" Phil blurts out. "Why? She doesn't _know_ her!"

Ivan shrugs. "Who really understands a woman's reasons? It is not for me to question. I merely relay the news."

Phil sighs. He supposes this might be nothing more than a ploy to get him to pay them a long overdue visit.

"I need to get back. Tell me you're not here on 'business'. Please?"

Ivan claps Phil on the back and shakes his head. "I cannot. You should finish your meal quickly… and remove your Marci from harm's way."

"What's the situation?" Phil can't help the professional curiosity that makes him ask.

Ivan purses his lips, hesitates, then shrugs again. "We have been following a Serbian operative. He has Soviet-era nuclear launch codes for sale. We have reason to believe the exchange is happening tonight."

"Here?" Phil is incredulous. What are the odds? "Goddammit!" He cannot believe his luck.

"Dah. Avoid the two men seated under the window."

"Do you know the buyer?" Phil asks.

Ivan shakes his head. "We were not able to learn that."

"Thank you, Ivan," Phil replies, returning Ivan's earlier hug, only not as fiercely.

When he returns to the table, things go from bad to worse because Clint and Natasha are being led into the dining room and then seated against the far wall. They're lost in each other, seemingly oblivious to the entire restaurant, but Phil knows better. He also knows this is no coincidence. That doesn't stop the surge of jealousy eating at his gut every time Clint nuzzles Natasha's neck, not to mention the sharp spike of anger that he is out of the loop on this op.

He grits his teeth and works hard to ignore everything except Marci, failing spectacularly.

"She is beautiful, isn't she?" Marci asks pulling Phil's focus back to their table.

"W-who?" he blinks.

"The redhead," Marci answers. "You're staring."

A non-SHIELD innocent has caught him out. He is doing worse than he'd imagined. "I wasn't looking at _her,_ " he says, emphasis unintentional.

"Phil. That man…" she starts, then pauses, her brows furrowing. "He looks familiar."

Before Phil can say anything, her eyes widen. "That's _Hawkeye,_ " she hisses. "I recognize him!" She glares at Phil. "What's going on?"

And, of course, Marci is bright, quick enough to put two and two together. Phil has never been attracted to anyone who isn't. "I don't know. It's just a coincidence."

 _'A horrible one. And just my luck.'_ he thinks. Aloud he says, "But I think we should—"

He never gets to finish that sentence because Victor Von Doom proves he's certifiable by striding into the restaurant in full regalia flanked by four goons. And then all hell breaks loose.

Phil drags Marci to her knees and leads her in a crawl toward the kitchen, picking up other patrons along the way. He wants to stop and help, but the civilians' and Marci's safety comes first. They are nearly to the kitchens when the lights flicker and go out. Shots and lasers and possibly, improbably, flames start bursting through the restaurant like a rock concert without the music.

Until the day he dies, Phil will deny that he panics at this point, because he's a trained SHIELD agent; this is definitely something that he has prepared for. But his people, the four people that he cares for the most in the world are out there; his _mom,_ no matter how capable, is out there with a mad super villain.

He's shouting into his phone, pulling out his duty pistol and leaping back into the darkened restaurant before he thinks. A laser bolt flies by his head, close enough to singe his hair. He drops down into a roll without thinking, ducking behind the bar. The strobe effect of the bright flashes of light and fire make it damn near impossible to keep his bearings and track the bad guys. But Phil doesn't need perfect vision. He wasn't sent to babysit Stark for no good reason. He knows momentum and trajectories and can follow a target near effortlessly, maybe not as perfect as Hawkeye, but Phil's one of the best. From one flash to the next he aims and fires, hitting the target despite the gaps in his vision.

One instant he sees Ivan and Victoria; they're tangling with the Serbian and his associate over his briefcase. In the next, Natasha's at their side and the associate goes down. That leaves Clint alone, tangling with Doom and his remaining goons.

Phil targets the goon at Clint's back, but before he can take the shot, a Doombot crashes through the wall taking out the henchman _and_ Clint. A loud buzzing starts in Phil's ears and he leaps over the bar to get to Clint, knocking Doom to his knees. Unfortunately, that means that Stark's shot misses and destroys the bar Phil had been behind, the blast driving Phil forward. 

Then he hears the familiar whine of repulsors powering up before he sees the familiar blue glow. He doesn't sabotage Stark's shot this time, just rolls out of the way, kicking the closest goon in the back of the knees to push himself off and out of the line of fire as he tries to get to Clint.

Stark's shot knocks Doom into the far wall and Phil twists to his side, ready to shoot, then the emergency lighting finally kicks on to reveal the destruction.

The remaining goons are flat out, Doom is down (Stark's standing on him), and Ivan is steadying Victoria who has a bleeding gash on her temple, which explains how the Serbian got away. Phil stands slowly, caught in the moment as the need to race to Clint wars with the need to check on his mom. Victoria gives Phil a fond smile and waves him away. Ivan has her and the launch codes, so Phil is free to turn toward Clint.

The Other Guy is reaching through the hole in the wall to pull chunks of brick and plaster from the pile as directed by Natasha. He's gentle, but that shouldn't surprise Phil. The Hulk likes Hawkeye.

Hulk says, "Birdy hurt?" and Phil stumbles closer.

Then there's coughing and he hears Clint's voice roughened by dust, "Nah, 'm fine, Big Guy. Thanks."

Hulk picks Clint up, needs to check for himself. Satisfied, he sets Clint down near Phil, accepts a quiet word from Natasha and leaves. 

Phil reaches for Clint, needs his own reassurance, anything to silence the roaring in his ears. "Clint?"

"I'm fine, boss. A table took the impact and there was this nice, soft henchman to land on." Clint's grinning as he shakes the debris out of his hair.

"Get checked out by medical, Barton," Phil insists.

"Aye-aye, sir."

"Clinton!" Victoria calls out as she closes in on them. Phil's not sure whether to be worried or confused. At this point he's really not sure what's going on. He realizes he's still grasping Clint's arm when he turns to give Victoria a cheeky grin. Phil releases his arm and steps back. He still can't quite catch his breath, tries to blame the ash, soot, and debris clogging the air, but he doesn't lie to himself. He's got it bad for Clint.

"Ma'am!" Clint greets, his hand touching the bruise forming on her temple. "You're hurt!" He sounds aggrieved and angry.

But Victoria brushes it off. "This isn't the first time I've been pistol-whipped, dear."

"And it is unlikely to be the last," Ivan finishes for her. But he's got his arm around her waist, cradling her gently.

"First or last, doesn't mean I have to like it," Clint nearly growls.

Victoria pats his arm, then pulls Clint into a hug. "I was worried when that wall dropped on you, young man." She pushes Clint to arms' length, studies him.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Coul—" he starts, catches Victoria's glare, then finishes with, "Victoria."

By then Natasha joins them and is swept into a bone crunching hug by Ivan.

Phil should be jealous, or concerned, or something besides relieved and grateful, but he can do nothing but smile and nod his agreement when his mother turns to him and demands, "Bring them for dinner on Sunday, dear. It has been too long and we must catch up."

Phil's still partially in shock, unable to process what has happened, but he's directing the SHIELD agents, somehow outwardly acting as though he's got his shit together. Inside he's a mess and he can't keep his eyes from his 'family', especially Clint, who is mugging for Phil's mom and making her laugh. Phil is torn, wants to join them, but needs to stay away. He has to get all the Clint-centered emotions shoved back into that dark corner of his heart before he does something completely and utterly stupid in front of everyone.

Marci joins him, quietly watching as Doom is being led into a black SHIELD armored van. She's got a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, damp hair clinging to her neck and cheeks, and there's an adorable black smudge on her nose.

"Marci," Phil greets, his eyes quickly assessing her state. She appears unharmed, but her wide eyes and puzzled expression reveals she's not as okay as he would wish. "You should have gone to the hospital with the others."

"I'm fine, Phil."

He reaches for her, then aborts the move. He has no idea what she's thinking. "Thank you for taking the lead with the civilians. You saved lives by keeping your head and getting everyone out of there." Phil's voice is more stilted and stiff than usual. He's fighting to keep his emotions from bursting out of his chest and the guilt that he feels for dragging Marci into this is making it difficult to keep his voice from wavering.

When he turns to look at her, she has her head cocked and is studying him. Phil's withstood torture, but there's something about this that makes him want to fidget. Then she gives him a little half-smile with sad eyes.

"My dad was a policeman. He made sure I wouldn't lose my head in an emergency."

"Was?" Phil asks, holding on to this while ignoring everything else tugging at his gut.

Marci's smile widens. "He's retired. So nothing bad."

"Oh. That's good then." And Phil wants to kick himself for sounding so utterly banal.

Marci places a gentle hand on his arm and he stiffens. He's no fool for all he's lying to himself about his feelings for Clint. He knows what's coming.

"I get it now, Phil. You really weren't looking at the red head." She straightens her shoulders and takes a deep breath. "You're a great guy, but I'm not who you want." She blinks a minute, then meets his eyes. "And all of this…" she waves her free arm at the scene. "I don't want this. I grew up in a house with fear. Fear of the phone ringing, fear of the doorbell. My mom never knew if dad was going to make it home. And your job? It's worse."

"I didn't mean to deceive you."

Marci chuckles. "I know. I may not want that life, but I can't help being attracted to danger-seeking saving-the-world types." She lifts up on her toes and kisses Phil's cheek, whispering, "I don't know why you haven't made your move, but I do know there's no time like the present."

"It's not like that," he protests.

Marci pats his arm, shaking her head as she walks away. "I'm no g-man, Phil, but don't bullshit me."

"Marci, wait!"

She stops, turns back to him, her smile fond. She's beautiful, everything Phil should want, but he's relieved. She deserves better than Phil and his insane life. "Have a good life, Phil. You deserve it."

Then she's gone and Phil's rooted to the spot.

~~*~~

Phil doesn't make his move. He keeps himself even more tightly in check, can't let his control slip, not once, except when he's forced to call Natasha in.

"Barton's been compromised."

Saying those three little words make him want to throw up, but he's on the bridge, in full view of SHIELD. So he mostly keeps it together, and if Maria hears the hitch in his voice, she never calls him on it.

The reality is so much worse than Phil could have imagined. He and Natasha watch the tapes over and over again. Even when Natasha leaves for Germany, Phil can't stop watching, looking for any sign of the Clint he knew in Loki's newly-recruited second. 

If he's more than a little compromised himself and possibly goes overboard trying to take on a god single-handedly, there's no one left to call him out on it. The world dims and even Fury can't order him to stay conscious as he bleeds out.

~~*~~

By the time Maria helps him into the little cottage in Jackson Hole, Phil wants to throw in the towel, maybe just throw up. He's exhausted, drained, wholly wrung out, body trembling. He can't catch his breath; all that just from an easy flight and a drive, up an admittedly winding mountain road. The altitude isn't helping and he wonders at the location, but is in no shape to argue.

He knows he'll make it, that it takes time to heal, this isn't his first rodeo, but Phil's aching and frustrated and lonely. He won't admit the last, not to Maria who has taken such good care of him, staying at his side and keeping him abreast of the latest news. She keeps him in the loop as best she can and he is grateful, except he's not. He shouldn't have to receive news after the fact or second-hand.

Sighing, he settles into the comfortably overstuffed sofa and stares at the mountains. The view is to die for (no pun intended), but it only makes the ache in his chest worse.

Maria lets him sulk while she double-checks everything. She's nothing if not efficient. He should help, or at least keep her company while she makes sure the place is set up just the way he likes: a fully stocked fridge (sadly no beer or wine allowed) and a pre-programmed Tivo, not to mention a fishing hole outside his back porch. It's idyllic and he hates it.

He should be happy to be alive and grateful that he is. Instead, he's a sullen, pouting mess.

Eight weeks alone in the hospital, then two weeks in a rehab facility with nothing to do except think, has left Phil a physical and emotional wreck. It doesn't help that no one knows that he's still alive, not his team, not even his own mother. It's a cruel thing Fury's demanding of him and Maria agrees, but they're both good little soldiers so here he is.

Wishing the lease had an end date as he tries to get comfortable in a life that he's never wanted.

~~*~~

Phil moans as he pulls himself out of the car. It's a small grimace of pain, one that he wouldn't normally allow, but there's no one around to hear, so he gives into the moment of self-pity. He hates his still-weak left shoulder and arm. It drives him crazy that he's unable to do pull-ups or push-ups or anything requiring the strength of both arms. So he's relegated to swimming and running. He even does yoga, hoping that he can regain his flexibility. He's leaner than ever before, but tires too easily and still can't reach behind himself with his left arm. It's maddening.

He drags himself up the front steps, only noticing that the lights are on as he reaches for the door handle. Maria is on an op and incommunicado, which is likely part of Phil's blue funk. He misses her weekly updates on his team (not _his_ anymore). The unexpected visitor can't be Maria and is unlikely to be Fury as he hasn't even acknowledged that Phil's alive. He's avoiding Phil and well he should. Phil's unhappy about this arrangement even if he has tacitly agreed to it.

Before Loki, he would never have missed such obvious signs. And now, he freezes, eyes darting to the walk and around the porch. The snow hasn't been falling for long, so the only foot prints are his. He's unarmed, but snags the snow shovel from the porch as he opens the door on silent hinges.

There's a fire crackling in the fireplace and a stack of newly split wood beside it. Stunned, he lowers the shovel and shrugs out of his coat. He glances around, eyes keen to find clues, but the house is conspicuously devoid of any presence but his own. His pistol is still hidden beside the sofa, so he draws it, releasing the safety with a soft click.

There's adrenaline surging through him as he moves toward the kitchen and he smiles. He has missed this.

Listening beside the doorway, he hears soft humming and an occasional low-voiced singing. Hope flares in his gut, but he shoves it down. His intruder might be a 'friendly', or merely someone pretending to be. He wants it to be Clint or Natasha. Hell, he'd even take Stark in place of this isolation.

Taking a deep breath, he pivots into the kitchen; gun raised and pointed at… Clint.

"Shit, Phil!" Clint exclaims as he turns and catches sight of Phil. He lifts his arms and gapes.

Phil blinks, takes too long to lower his pistol. "Dammit, Barton!" he growls to cover the hungry way he eyes Clint.

Once the gun is no longer trained on Clint, he lowers his arms and stares back at Phil. The silence stretches until the tension is thick and awkward, neither of them willing to speak first. But Phil is a master of patience. He never jumps the gun, so he stands and soaks up the scene before him: Clint Barton in his kitchen. Cooking.

Phil doesn't believe in miracles, but just maybe this time he believes in second chances.

"You look surprisingly healthy for a dead man, sir."

Clint's patience only extends to a target sighted through a rifle scope or along the shaft of an arrow. He doesn't trust anyone enough to keep his silence. The familiarity, the ordinary tone releases a tension that Phil isn't aware he had been carrying.

"The rumors of my—"

"Don't you dare finish that." Clint's voice is raw, dragging Phil's eyes to his face. He almost wishes he hadn't seen that look, the wounded, broken expression in Clint's eyes.

Phil tries to soothe, he owes Clint that. "I'm not dead, Barton."

"I can see that. And I'm so pissed right now."

"All right." Phil's at a loss. Clint's standing in Phil's kitchen staring at him, his face open and unguarded for once. He's confessed his anger and hurt, admitted things that they never have. That Phil never allowed in the past. He slumps into a kitchen chair, rests his face in his hands; concentrating on breathing, which is the wrong thing to do.

"Sir?" Clint's hovering beside him, palm on his shoulder, its weight dragging him under. Phil wants to shrug it off, shake off the turmoil seizing his guts and clogging his throat. But he also wants to turn and pull Clint close, tuck his head against his stomach, burrow in and _stay._

"Phil?" Clint asks again, face moving close, breath brushing Phil's cheek.

Clint's worried and Phil should say something, but he's fighting to draw air into his lungs and he can't. When he lifts his eyes Clint is right there. So beautiful even like this, eyes wide and a concerned frown marring his lips. 

He needs to kiss Clint.

Phil chastises himself for the urge, but Clint sees him and somehow knows. He leans the last bit of space between them and presses their lips together. It's not perfect, not yet, but it's everything Phil's denied himself. He's only human after all.

Surging up, he wraps his good hand around Clint's neck to hold him in place as they tilt their heads, align their noses and both dive into their second kiss.

 _This is perfect._ Clint has singular focus and skill and when he turns that dedication toward Phil, it's like the stars have aligned. Because suddenly, they're not only kissing. Phil has a lapful of archer, has his weak arm wrapped around Clint's waist, his good arm still pulling them tight together. There's moaning and Phil would blush to know that it's him, but he's too far gone to care.

For every small utterance from Phil's lips, Clint grinds down harder, hips swiveling urgently. It's gratifying that Phil's not alone in this, that the raging inferno roaring through his veins is shared. He gasps, pulling back, the brief break sends ice washing through his blood and he dives in again. He wants Clint, has wanted him for too long. For the life of him, he can't figure out why he ever thought that refusing this was a good idea.

Clint nips at Phil's neck, murmurs, "You're over thinking, sir." 

The sad truth is that Phil just can't turn off his brain. His body is a trained weapon; muscle memory and near instant response times take over in life or death situations. This is nothing of the sort and his body is stymied by his mind, by a never ending circle of what ifs and should nots. It is maddening, especially when Clint sucks on the muscle in Phil's neck. He jerks at the hard pull, groans aloud, face flaring at just how thoroughly Clint is hitting each and every last spot that makes Phil hiss. Even in this, Clint's aim is spot-on.

Then Clint throws his head back as his hips grind down, sending bursts of pleasure from Phil's groin straight to his heart. Phil's panting, too close, and he finally reacts, reaches up to grasp Clint's hips, stilling them with a low rumble. Clint whimpers and ducks his head, resting it on Phil's shoulder. He exhales, long and low, gives an obscene, frustrated whimper, sending Phil over the edge. Phil's _consumed_ by lust, by gnawing, aching desire. He's fought this for an eternity, flew off the radar, goddamned _died_ for SHIELD and he's done denying himself.

Panting, Phil nudges Clint's head up, needs to see those fucking gorgeous eyes of his. The world stills and Phil forgets how to breathe when he does. "Bed?" he rasps softly, though he wants to demand, wants to shove Clint to the nearest flat surface and strip him bare, like he's done to Phil.

"Hell, yeah," Clint replies. His eyes have grown dark, wide pupils swallowing the arresting blue-green. He stands, unsteady at first, but covers his shaky limbs with a cocky grin. Phil follows, hands sliding up Clint's thighs as he stands until he wraps himself around Clint. They're pressed together, chest to knees and Phil can only gape for a moment as his hands roam, first over Clint's back, then down his arms, his large, well-muscled, goddamned perfect arms.

"Fuck," Phil murmurs. "Need you to fuck me, Clint."

Clint growls and seizes Phil's lips. This kiss is impossibly more heated, more desperate, makes Phil's head swim. Clint's got him by the nape and the cheek, holding him in place, tongues tangling as Clint sweeps in again and again, demanding, _owning._ And Phil opens, unfolds, submits. It's strangely liberating as his higher brain functions shut down. He's nothing but emotion and reaction. He goes where Clint leads, eagerly falling to his knees on the bed after Clint strips him.

Clint proves that his aim and skill are just as deadly in the bedroom when he reduces Phil to a blubbering, moaning, writhing mess in six easy steps. If Phil had any blood somewhere other than his aching cock, he might glory in cataloging Clint's careful fingers, the way he skirts the perfect line between mind-blowing pleasure and sharp, bright pain. It's almost too much with Phil splayed wide, open and vulnerable and it should be terrifying and nearly is, but then Clint is pushing in and it's not nearly enough.

Phil arches up, meets Clint thrust for thrust, wraps his legs around Clint's waist, grabs his arms, and howls with pleasure.

It's over too soon and Phil's drowning in a sea of fire and light, his body coiling tight on the crest of a wave, Clint steering him expertly until fever bright ecstasy explodes around him, in him, and he's shuddering, muscles confused, caught between tension and release. He sags, spent and near insensate, but he feels it, warmth and smug satisfaction when Clint cries out, his climax hot on the heels of Phil's.

"Fuck!" Phil feels Clint huff against his neck.

He's grinning like an idiot, tugs Clint close, uncaring of the heavy weight pinning him down. He sighs as Clint kisses his neck, soft gusts of breath over wet skin making him shiver as they both try to gather their wits.

Phil wants to speak, to say something, but his eyes are so heavy. He's warm, content, utterly sated; and unable to argue when Clint rolls them to their sides facing each other. He tangles their legs and flips the covers over them. They'll talk. Later. When his limbs aren't rubber and his mouth can string two words together. He burrows closer to Clint, presses his cheek to Clint's shoulder, drifting away between one breath and the next.

~~*~~

Phil wakes to a feeling of security and serenity that is wholly foreign. He stiffens, but quickly reigns in the impulse as it slowly dawns that he's not been drugged. Well, not by anything other than mind-blowing sex and early morning snuggles. Who would believe that Clint Barton is a cuddler?

As he blinks his eyes open, Clint swims into view. He's sprawled face down, one leg out of the covers that have been pushed down, teasing at the swell of his fabulous ass. Phil wants to touch, needs to slide his hands along his spine, skim the scars marring otherwise flawless olive skin. Clint's shoulders are broad, his arms flexed where they are tucked up underneath the pillows. And all Phil can think of is licking his way along a trail from top to bottom of that expanse of delicious flesh.

His breathing's elevated, morning wood growing insistent, but before he can lean down and lap at the freckles on Clint's back, Clint rolls over and looks up at Phil. His eyes are blinking open slowly, their color a mesmerizing green-blue with hints of gold. Phil should feel like an idiot cataloging the changing colors of Clint's eyes, but he can't help himself. He's smitten, transfixed, unable to stop. Moving forward, they kiss, taking their time despite stale morning breath.

"Morning," Clint murmurs.

"Clint," Phil replies, sudden worry tangling with lust. He swallows as it dawns on him the ramifications of what they'd done. How is he going to give up Clint after having this? Phil's a master at compartmentalizing, at denying he's more than an emotionless automaton, but this… this is going to break him.

What the ever living fuck was he thinking?

"Phil?"

The timbre of Clint's voice pulls Phil out of the endless loop he's spinning through. He blinks at Clint and gives him a wholly fake smile, which does nothing to assuage the worry darkening Clint's features.

"Oh, hell no, sir!" Clint blurts out as he rolls Phil to his back.

Phil is still quietly freaking out and goes easily, until he's pinned, arms trapped over his head with Clint's calves pressing into his thighs. It should be sexy as hell, but Phil's too busy hyperventilating to notice.

"Goddammit, _Phil._ Don't you fuckin' dare!"

Clint's angry now, furious from the hard set of his eyes, the tightness of his mouth, and the too-careful way he's holding Phil down, their bodies touching at only four points.

"Clint, we can't…" Phil starts, but chokes, forcing him to swallow again. "We _shouldn't,_ " he continues, conviction strengthening the words that will rip his heart out. "What about your cop? Jim, wasn't it? And SHIELD? The Initiative?" He gathers steam even as he fights the bile rising in his throat. "You've fought so hard for this. We're… _I'm_ not worth you tossing that all away."

A gray haze obscures Phil's vision as he finally gathers the courage to meet Clint's eyes. The sadly familiar creeping numbness gives him the nerve to go on despite the look on Clint's face. Phil's a trained agent, the best the Army Rangers and SHIELD had created, he can do this. This is _nothing_ like ordering an agent into a suicide mission.

So why does it hurt like a son of a bitch?

Clint shakes his head and sighs softly. He swallows once, eyes dropping closed before he clambers off Phil. He settles beside Phil, back against the headboard.

Phil recognizes the deliberate way Clint is moving; the calculated position, the precise, controlled movements. He's reining in his impulses, corralling his temper. And Phil's next to him, naked, exposed, and emotionally bruised.

Phil scrambles up, hesitates before deciding that he really can't face Clint while they do this. And he sure as hell isn't going to have this conversation while naked. He tries not to be self-conscious as he grabs a t-shirt and sweats, and tugs them on. It's near impossible, especially when he catches Clint's eyes following his every move. Phil should insist that Clint get dressed, but he honestly can't. Not when his heart lurches when he turns and sees a naked Clint sprawled on his bed, leaning against the headboard. He's all casual grace and power, deadly strength restrained, held in check by a stunningly brilliant mind. He's wearing that blank expression that Phil has learned means he's dropped into "mission space" – he's got his orders, an objective and he won't stop until he's completed it. There's a brief flicker of eye contact and Phil stumbles. Clint's so fucking _beautiful._

Phil catches himself, clearing his throat before saying a quiet, "Scoot over. If we're doing this here in my goddamned bedroom, then I'm sitting for it."

"Yes, sir," Clint answers, his voice cool.

Phil made the last move, but the ball's still in his court. There's not enough space between them and he imagines he can feel the heat radiating off Clint; that he can hear his heartbeat; feel little puffs of air brush his skin. One last swallow and Phil's regained his composure.

"We can't do this, be an 'us', Clint. We agreed it was for the best."

Clint tenses, but doesn't argue.

"The Initiative is too important to mess up. It was one thing when we might compromise an isolated op, but this is so much bigger than that. _You're_ bigger than that. The whole world depends on the Avengers. We… _I_ can't interfere with that."

Each word takes too much energy and Phil runs out of breath. He's desperately trying to convince himself as much as Clint. He's pretty sure he's failed on both fronts.

"You done, sir?"

Phil jerks his head up, turns toward Clint. He didn't mistake the impatient tone. Clint hadn't acknowledged a word he'd said. That should piss him off, but he's too off kilter, unsteady, and he half-way expected it. He can only nod in answer.

"First, there is no Jim and I. We're friends. We couldn't be anything more because he was hung up on his ex and I… I was hung up on you. So, hot lay or not, we were never good like that. His ex came back into town and we dropped the 'fuck' part, kept the buddies."

Clint pauses, a soft smile curving his lips.

"He's a good friend. Wants to kick your ass."

Phil blinks. Too many emotions: jealousy, relief, worry make his gut churn. But Clint's not done.

"As for SHIELD? There's a lot you've missed, _Phil._ " Clint emphasizes his name, gives him a shark's grin and anxiety mixes with disbelief. He doubts he's missed as much as Clint thinks. Maria is always quite thorough with her info dumps.

"Whatever SHIELD's policies are, it doesn't matter anymore. Nat and I, we don't work for SHIELD. We quit."

"What?!?" Phil blurts out, eyes flying to Clint's. He has to fix this. "You can't—"

"I can. We did. Believe it or not, it had very little to do with you. With your 'death'." And Phil can hear the scare quotes even if Clint didn't lift his hands.

"The Avengers pulled out. We're not going to be associated with an organization that was willing to drop a nuke on Manhattan. That's not who we are, that's not what we stand for. And you with your "Captain America ideals" should know that."

"But, how will you get funding? And sanction? Clint!" Phil is seriously losing it over this. The Avengers Initiative was his baby and he cannot let them disband. "Clint, you can't do this." He has turned, his hand flying to Clint's bicep. He'll beg, do whatever, but this can't happen. "I wasn't lying when I said the world needs you, needs the Avengers. Especially now. The universe is so much bigger than we ever knew."

Clint's eyes flick to Phil's hand, then they're back up and his grin has softened, his eyes glint mischievously.

"I never said that the Avengers have broken up, Phil. We might sorta be a 'boy band' complete with oversized egos and groupies – and don't dare tell Nat I said that – but we're a team, good together, better than any of us were alone. I don't know all the legalities, but we're on our own. A separate entity. I think we're some sort of non-profit funded almost exclusively by Stark Industries."

He's smirking now and his hand has moved to cover Phil's, to hold it there; his warmth seeping into Phil's palm.

"Nick Fury actually smiled when we served him the papers. I think this was the bastard's plan all along."

"But then why didn't Maria…" Phil asks, his carefully crafted world tilting dangerously. If he can't hold it together, he's going to capsize and sink under a tidal wave of lost opportunity in a future where he doesn't matter.

Clint shrugs, seemingly casually, but he presses down, keeps Phil's hand in place. "She didn't know. And then when she found out, Fury sent her on an op. Got her out of the way."

That takes a moment to sink in and Phil's ridiculously grateful that Clint's stopped talking, that he hasn't let go of Phil, that Clint has moved closer at some point until their legs are brushing together.

"So Fury planned this. Made sure you guys were a team, would have each other's backs instead of being at each other's throats, and then he cuts you loose so the WSC can't get to you?" Phil shakes his head. He had believed the Initiative was _his,_ that he had to fight Nick to back it, that his 'death' had made it work. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that he'd simply been another pawn in Fury's gambit.

"Shit. That _bastard._ "

That makes Clint chuckle. "Fury lies."

"I never thought he'd lie to me."

"He had his reasons."

Phil turns toward Clint, can't help touching his jaw with his free hand. There's a hint of scruff on his chin and Phil can't decide if he likes it or not. "I can't believe you're defending Nick Fury."

"I can't believe I am, either," Clint grins that self-conscious little smile that makes Phil's heart ache.

"What about—" Phil drops his hand, trying to divert attention from the sudden tension in the air.

"Not done yet, sir."

Phil swallows, his heart begins racing like he'd run the five mile obstacle course with a fully loaded pack. And he can't stop staring at Clint, at his eyes, those goddamned mesmerizing eyes, and every little perfect imperfection in his striking face.

"You said we can't, that I agreed to it. That we're SHIELD and that was reason enough. But I'm not SHIELD, _Phil._ Not anymore. I'm an Avenger."

He sounds so proud, so strong, so utterly confident. It makes Phil's heart skip a beat. He asks, because he has to, "And me? Where do I fit in your shiny new Avengers team?" Phil's not sure he wants the answer, readies himself to hear _'you don't,'_ but Clint squeezes his hand and smiles.

"As our handler. Liaison to SHIELD, world governments, and SI." He takes a long pause. "If you're up to the job?" His smile grows, matches his teasing tone. There's a hint of a challenge, too. Clint knows that Phil can't resist a challenge.

Phil hesitates before answering, then he feels himself settle, feels the world right itself. He's being offered what he wanted all along: a place amidst true heroes, doing good work. He huffs out a relieved sigh. "If I can handle you and Agent Romanoff in my sleep, I can handle the super-powered set."

Clint grins then, sharp with a calculated gleam in his eyes.

But before he can take advantage of the pun, Phil protests, "Forget I said that! I'll take the job, just no innuendo." He's trying desperately not to smile, but he knows it's obvious that Clint got to him. And now all he can think about is handling Clint _everywhere._

But Clint gives a slight shake to his head. "You're off your game. Left yourself open. That was just too easy and you know I don't work that way."

Phil nods. Clint never does anything the easy way.

Instead Clint asks, "You're not going to ask, are you?"

Phil pretends to not understand what he's talking about.

Clint's lips thin, but then he takes a quick breath. "Fine. Stubborn bastard," he huffs out, barely audible. "Fine. I'll lay it all on the table. I don't care what we 'agreed' to in the past. It's just that. _In the past._ And you fuckin' _died._ " He stumbles on that last word, but quickly continues. "So whatever. You died and death nullifies all existing contracts and agreements… sir."

Clint looks at Phil. His eyes are still haunted, a little bit sad, but there's a determination, a steadiness to his gaze. Phil's breath catches in his throat, eyes widening as Clint moves closer.

"I'm going to kiss you now. No more games. No more dancing around this. I lost you once and I'm damn sure not going to do it again."

And then Clint leans the rest of the way, wraps Phil up tight and kisses him like there's no tomorrow. And Phil gives in, throws himself into the kiss like he's never done before. He gives Clint everything, doesn't let him pull back for air. He wants this, has wanted it for too long, thought he'd never even see Clint again, let alone have him here, in Phil's bed.

It's heady and a little too desperate, too rushed even after last night, but neither of them is exactly at their most patient, so they try one way, then another, flipping around until Clint impales himself on Phil with a devastating groan. It's almost over before it's begun, but Phil recites security codes, foreign alphabets, any number set he can think up to keep from coming right then and there.

Clint's too perfect, is the most gorgeous thing Phil's ever seen and he can't hold back, doesn't have the wherewithal to do more than hang on and enjoy the ride. It's glorious and freeing and Phil's never felt anything like the warmth and overflowing love that washes through him when Clint arches and cries out, shooting into Phil's fist as Phil shudders and climaxes with a harsh moan.

Phil must have blacked out for an instant because he doesn't remember Clint dropping beside him, doesn't remember wrapping his warm body in his arms, but he regains sense and wakes to all of that and a warm, cuddly Clint settled at his side. There are soft kisses, murmurs, declarations and Phil's content in a way he hasn't been before.

Clint's looking up at him, a smug smirk on his lips and his eyes shining. Phil's heart stutters when it finally sinks in: this is _his._ He can wake up to Clint every day. Forever.

Phil smiles widely, can't help it. He kisses Clint again, tugs him closer.

"It's good to see you smile, sir. I like it on you."

"Quit calling me 'sir', Clint."

Clint's grin turns decidedly wicked. "But I _like_ calling you 'sir'… _sir._ "

Phil just snorts and shakes his head. Clint hasn't changed. He's going to be a handful, no matter what Phil does. And, oddly enough, Phil wouldn't have it any other way.

~~*~~

"Clint," Phil whines, fidgeting in the car as they weave through traffic. "I don't think—"

"Phil," Clint admonishes. "It'll be fine."

"I'm not so sure. Stark Tower? Really? Shouldn't you take me back to my apartment?"

Clint snorts, shakes his head, but his eyes never leave the road. "First. It's _Avengers_ Tower now. And second. You died, remember? Your apartment was leased out months ago."

Phil slumps. Oh, yeah. He'd forgotten that little detail. "I'm not ready to face everyone," he admits, turning toward Clint. "Can we not? Just drop me at the nearest hotel."

Clint looks at Phil then. He takes his right hand off the wheel and rests it on Phil's thigh before giving his leg a reassuring squeeze. "Nat knows we're coming and she promised to clear the tower. I think she said something about getting the big guy on skis."

Phil covers Clint's hand with his own and takes a deep breath. It'll be so much easier to return to the land of the living if he eases in. "Thank you," he says, for more than just this.

They approach the tower and Phil's heart gives a little excited jump from seeing that lone 'A' shining like a beacon. He's still unused to the idea that he's an Avenger. That he's part of this. His smile is wide until Clint refuses to let him carry anything except his small overnight bag. He's not an invalid. He's been cleared for active duty.

The little flare of irritation ceases when Clint presses his back to the elevator wall and kisses him. He licks into Phil's mouth, slow and dirty, teasing as he draws soft moans from Phil. It lingers and Phil knows he's being played, distracted until the kisses turn gentle, into chaste affirmations. They arrive, the elevator pinging quietly just as Clint pulls away.

Clint's gathering the bags so his back is turned as the doors open, but Phil's is not. He wishes it was. The doors slide silently open and Phil is greeted by every last member of the Avengers team staring back at him.

"Agent!" Tony greets, his tone light, but without a smile on his face.

Clint drops the bags and turns, barks out, "Nat!"

Natasha steps forward and shrugs. "They knew you were coming and nothing I said could move them."

She gives Clint a half-smile, unapologetic, then turns to Phil.

He straightens, knows this is going to be bad, especially when Natasha meets his eyes. She allows him a brief moment to see how much he'd hurt her; just how deeply he'd damaged her trust, then she's pulling him into a hard hug, arms wrapped tight around him, her cheek pressing against Phil's. "If you ever pull something like that again, sir, I will raze your world to the ground," she hisses into his ear.

With a sharp peck on his cheek, she steps back and the rest of the team engulfs Phil.

It's overwhelming and he must apologize a thousand times. He tries to explain, to convince them that it had been necessary, that he hadn't liked it any more than they did. Tony scoffs at that. He asserts that Phil is cut from the same cloth as Fury, that lies come more naturally than truths. It's disconcerting because it's true, except that it's not. Especially not now. Not when he's been given a second chance, been handed his life's dream on a silver platter. When he promises, swears, that he's not going to screw up like that again, he gets a smile from Steve. That feels amazing, especially when the suspicion in Bruce's eyes fades.

Phil's got a long way to go, but he's made it through the gauntlet seemingly unscathed. He's upright and smiling, surrounded by his team and all is right with the world.

Until they part and he's face-to-face with his mother and Ivan.

_'Fuck!'_

This isn't going to be pretty. His eyes dart frantically, seeking Clint. He catches his gaze, bolsters himself with the confidence and love he sees reflected there. He's steadier, can handle anything with Hawkeye at his side and the Avengers at his back.

Even his extremely furious mother.

The End


End file.
